


Castiel Has Served, Castiel May Go Now

by abstractsta



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dei Ex Machinis galore, Depression, Dysfunctional Relationships, Happy Ending, Hopeful Ending, Human Castiel, M/M, Married Castiel/Dean Winchester, Misunderstandings, Post-Series, Sam is irreplaceable, Suicide, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-08
Updated: 2014-06-15
Packaged: 2018-02-03 21:39:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1757667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abstractsta/pseuds/abstractsta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel has some unforeseen emotions after becoming fully human after his grace burns out. Apparently, his grace, or his previous stint as a human, had somehow not given him a very accurate nor truthful perception of what is really happening around him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Castiel Has Served, Castiel Can Go Now

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that there is nothing very graphic here, but tread with caution nonetheless. As we know, YMMV, and these are quite delicate subject matters here.
> 
> This is Castiel seeing the world through seriously fucked up, depression-warped lenses. As it is such, it's also a take on how events may unfold if people don't open their mouths and actually talk about their feelings. And talk about them long and repeatedly enough, so that what is being said, actually takes root and is understood.
> 
> edit: Now betaed by the lovely luhverse. Any remaining mistakes are mine.

***

Becoming human hadn’t happened in one fell swoop. It had happened in increments – one little detail here, understanding sarcastic tones there, feeling fit to die from helpless embarrassment when Dean rolled his eyes and mocked the ‘baby in a trench coat’, the works. And when Castiel’s grace had finally flickered into nonexistence, he had a passing grasp of the range of human emotions and how they manifested.

He’d tried before, tried being chummy, tried being efficient, tried being useful, only to be shot down with his efforts to be worth something, even without his divine powers.

He sometimes stayed awake, thinking. Mostly, thinking about everything Dean had told him about the dystopia of the future that was now the past; about Cas The Cheshire Cat, wasted on whatever he’d gotten his hands on. Recently, Castiel had started to empathize.  Not with Dean’s discomfort of seeing it, but with this other version of himself, who had taken a route out when there was nowhere to go, even though the road always brought him crashing back to where he’d started.

Castiel understood why this other Cas had been chasing the high. It was, after all, a valid escape, no matter how potentially deadly and temporary.

To be completely honest, Castiel had hoped Dean would ask him to stay when Heaven was about to close for business, but it had been a fool’s hope, intertwined with the wish to be significant enough not to be sent away. But, Castiel has served. Castiel may go now.

With the growing understanding of just how many times he’d been the butt-end of the joke without him realizing, and the way he’d become reclusive to avoid the awkwardness that came with him just being present, Castiel had become more and more uncomfortable in his once-vessel. The absolute void of being an outsider was gnawing at his brain, and the pain of it, lodged firmly in his chest, was insurmountable.

Maybe that, instead of the thinking, was what was keeping him awake at night.

It was ironic, probably in more senses than one, that he’d carried burdens – his own as well as others’ – and always felt there was atonement to make, that nothing was irredeemable, that what was done, was done for the right reasons, and wasn’t there something about how it was the thought that counts?

But now, the weight of his own existence was too much to haul out of bed. Except tonight, when the thoughts rattled on while he sat on the bathroom floor, playing in a loop in full color, surround sound and excruciating detail; that time at a bar, when he’d been blessedly oblivious to mortification, cheerily handing out beers to Sam and Dean, and announced himself a hunter.

How the cold tendrils of trepidation had crept up his neck at Dean’s incredulous look, but chose to ignore them in favor of celebration. Shrugged them off as something frivolous, instead of understanding -  refusing to understand? - the feeling in context with Dean’s amusement. It is possible Castiel had never misinterpreted something so horrendously.

Yes. It would save everyone a lot of trouble. No more accidental insinuations, not another day of trying to force his emotions behind a mask. No more plastic smiles and sitting in silence while other people – his very heart and his brother – exchange glances and try to hide their smirks.

There was nothing out of the ordinary about the gun or the bullets, as far as Castiel could tell. Then again, it was of no import, as long as it was a functioning weapon with effective projectiles, since there was nothing out of the ordinary about Castiel. Except that, to his knowledge, he didn’t have a soul, what with him being an angel with his grace burnt out.

The muzzle of the pistol almost made him gag, a reflex he’d been much more useful to Dean without, and he spared a thought for where he’d end up with nothing inside him to pass on to any afterlives. Not that it really mattered.

At least for the living, it would be easy to rinse him off the tiles.

Castiel grinned the best he could with his mouth open, amused by his private joke, and wondered if they’d at least think him thoughtful as he pulled the trigger.


	2. Does Poker Have Pawns?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for brief gore.
> 
> Thank you, luhverse, for your beta and suggestions <3 Any remaining mistakes are all mine.

***

Dean bolted up at the sound of a gunshot, and was through their bedroom door in three seconds after establishing that Cas’s side of the bed was cold. Reason dictated that there could not be demons or any kind of monsters in the bunker, but his sleep-addled brain still sent signals to his empty hands, itching for a shotgun loaded with salt, an angel blade, Ruby’s knife, a goddamned squirt gun filled with Holy Water – anything to keep him from the realization that whatever the gun had went off for, and for whatever reason Cas wasn’t sleeping beside him, were probably connected.

“Cas!” Dean turned around, at the sound of footsteps behind him, eyes wild, instinctively lowering to a defensive stance, before Sam’s bewildered face made enough sense to count as safe. There was no response to Dean’s call.

Handing Dean a machete, Sam raised his brow, then nodded when Dean jerked his head toward the war room and headed the other way himself. Sam and his Beretta could take care of anything mortal.

It was possibly a testament to how comfortable Dean had grown to their lives in the Bunker that Sam was the one bearing weapons. All Dean had come armed with was his nauseating worry for Cas.

Hefting the machete in one hand, Dean found his side of the approximate origins of the gunshot clear, and made to open the bathroom door, prepared for anything.

The world tilted, forcing Dean to his knees mid-step, the machete clattering on the tiles as a sound of desperation and horror forced their way out of Dean’s throat in a keening wail.

He did not know if he breathed. He did not know if he cried. He did not know anything, except that Cas’s weight, as he cradled his limp body against his chest, was heavier than it should be. There wasn’t warmth wrapped around him as there should be when Cas hugged him. Cas wasn’t hugging him. Why wasn’t Cas hugging him? Dean was hugging Cas, so Cas should be hugging him back. That’s just how things were now, mutual hugs, even when one started from behind. It was their _thing_ , turning around and hugging back, because nothing was so important that there wasn’t time for a hug. Please, Cas…

Sam tried not to see the part of the back of Cas’s head that had burst open, but forced himself to catalogue the scene in front of him. There was the pistol that had probably dropped from Cas’s hand when Dean had hauled him up. There was the awkward twist of Cas’s body while he was faced toward Dean from the waist up, but the rest of him sat cross-legged. The blood spattered on the wall, and the pool of red where Cas’s head had been laying just moments before, together with a part of Cas’s head missing, belayed the initial wash of relief from finding his brother embracing a perfectly calm Cas, Cas, with his eyes closed and his chin resting on Dean’s shoulder.

Sam tried not to understand what had happened, but failed; Cas had blown his brains out, eaten a bullet, taken a 9mm painkiller, checked out, fucking _killed himself_.

Sam _did_ try to open his mouth and say something, but it didn’t happen. He was paralyzed. All he could do was swallow, repeatedly, and stare as his brother asked hushed questions from his dead husband.

What finally pushed Sam back into motion, was the sight of Cas’s blood dripping on Dean’s arm while Dean pulled back from Cas as if to question him face to face, demanding an answer to why he wasn’t doing anything. Was it something he said?

Kneeling next to Dean, Sam stopped Dean’s movement gently, forcing his mind into practicality and minimal casualties. Actions, instead of letting a single thought into his mind. It would not do to curl the three of them together and pretend everything will be fine if they just close their eyes and click their heels. It wouldn’t help anyway, since they were in Kansas already, and home was where Cas was dead and Dean wasn’t seeing Sam, was looking through him with glassy eyes, behind which realization dawned as inevitably as morning.

“Dean, you have to let go of him.”

“Why?” Dean held on tighter.

“You have to get up.”

“Why?”

“Because you… He’s…” Sam scrunched his eyes shut and inhaled, willing away the smell of blood. “Dean, you’re not any help to Cas if you stay down here.”

“No, but he can’t sit up on his own. I promised to stay by him. I promised, Sammy, you were right there, you know this, until dea –”

Dean’s features crumbled and he buried his face into Cas’s neck, shoulders rising with each heaving breath, until his whole form slumped, leaving it to Sam to gently remove Dean’s arms from around Cas and lowering the body back to the floor. When he looked up, tears were escaping from under Dean’s closed eyelids.

Holding on to whatever remained of Sam’s resolve, he managed to maneuver Dean into the kitchen, seat him, grab a chair and sit in front of his brother.

How long they sat, heads bowed together, hands clasping each other’s while tears fell freely, neither of them knew. It didn’t matter. Not much did anymore. 

***

Dean’s eyes felt raw as he watched Sam dunk a tea bag into a mug and pour the water. “We’re not burning him.” It was the one thing that he’d decided when he’d gone back to the bathroom to unfold his husband’s limbs and cover him with his comforter. He’d put a pillow under his head, and had done so nearly blind, since the tears kept his vision blurred. He was almost thankful for it, since Cas looked nothing like sleeping.

“Are you sure? There’s so much we don’t know--”

“We are _not_ burning him. If he comes back as a ghost, _good_.” Dean accepted the mug with trembling hands. The chamomile tea smelled like hay, but if he didn’t drink it, Sam would stick a funnel down his throat, like tea, fucking _tea_ would do anything to calm him.

***

Errant thoughts bounced around Dean’s head like a game of pinball, whizzing around, but he couldn’t catch them before they disappeared and left behind a dull emptiness.

It had been a meaningless victory when Dean, bull-headed as ever, convinced Sam they would simply bury Cas. The hope for a fairytale ending, for _An Act of God_ , had been left unspoken, when Dean had argued for Cas to have something to return to with only a glare. After that, Sam had shut his face and headed out with a shovel.

That was two days ago, and Dean still hadn’t said much. Hadn’t really thought of much, but he’d had a mirthless, somewhat psychotic cackle at Sam’s cautious questioning if Dean was planning on making any demon deals. “As if they’d have anything to do with me,” he’d replied, and hadn’t even really lied. He _had_ planned something like that, but didn’t anymore. Simply because he didn’t have anything to offer the Hellish side of the business. These days, his soul was as worthless as a handful of dust ( _to dust, from ashes to ashes, earth to earth, and we commit his body to the ground but it doesn’t make any_ sense _because Cas was not of dust, of earth, The Lord bless him and keep him_ fuck that--)

“Dean! Dean! Stop!”

Apparently the kitchen wall peels the skin off your knuckles if you hit it repeatedly and hard enough.

Dean passed a weary hand over his face. “Uh. Thanks.”

Sam deemed Dean’s injuries as non-urgent through red-rimmed eyes. “What was that?”

“God and I had a disagreement,” Dean slumped down on the chair, propping his elbows on the table and holding his head in his hands. “He won this round.”

Raising his head to look Sam in the eye, Dean puffed out a lungful or air and shook his head slowly. “I got nothing, Sam.”

Sam took a seat opposite the table, uncertainty written all across his face in places where grief left it room. His voice came a little above a whisper; “Do you know—Do you have any idea why—If you don’t want to talk about it, if it’s too soon, I…”

“No,” Dean swallowed hard. “I don’t know why.” The rage from minutes ago was coming back and he squeezed his hands into white-knuckled fists. “Don’t you think I would’ve fucking _done_ something?!”

***

“Yes! Okay? Yes, I fucking noticed stuff, but I thought… I thought he just needed space, man. I mean, he’d lost his wings, his grace, his everything, all over again, and I kept my distance to let him get his head sorted. Just thought it was all catching up to him…”

“Oh my... _Fuck_ ,” Dean buried his face in his hands, shaking his head. “I’ve been so blind. I’ve been so far up my own ass I didn’t see him fading away. When even was the last time he smiled, like, that smile that scrunches up his nose and…” The rest got lost in the choking sob wrecking his chest.

***

“ _Humans are fickle. They change their minds with the change of the wind._ ” Dean stood at the door to Sam’s room, glancing up from a thin notebook, looking pallid and nauseous. He could barely continue, but soldiered on; “There’s more. Not much,” he flipped through the pages. “But it looks like he’d been going over things that happened years ago.” Dean had to close his eyes so he didn’t have to face Sam for the next bit. “He thought we were just using him. That _I_ was just using him.”

After a silence threatening to stretch on forever, Sam flinched as Dean threw the notebook at a wall. It fluttered miserably to the floor. “He thought he was worthless now, that I didn’t care. That’s why he never said anything. He thought I wouldn’t give a shit.” Dean seemed even more deflated as he sought Sam’s face as if looking for answers. “He thought we’d laugh about it the second his back was turned. Sammy, he thought of himself as a goddamn _mascot_ ,” Dean pointed at the notebook, voice giving out, “he didn’t even feel like a person anymore.” The rest of it was barely a whisper; “He thought I don’t love him.”

In the end, it wasn’t as much of a decision as it was a simple fact just waiting to be said out loud.

 “Dean. We need to find him.”

Sam hadn’t seen such tentative hope on his brother’s face since he’d asked Cas to marry him.

***

“So get this,” Sam came to stand next to the table Dean sat at, poring over tome after tome with unseeing eyes. If God was their only remaining go-to, there was nothing here that would be of any help.

“Yeah,” Dean tried to look alert when Sam shoved his laptop under his nose. “What am I looking at?”

“Theft.”

“Uhuh.”

“No, _look_ at it. And the same thing has been happening all over the world. Lots of stuff with magical or biblical connotations have gone missing in the past two weeks.” Sam wizarded over the keyboard and the screen came up with nothing less than an angel blade some collector had reported missing, only, the caption claiming it a priceless piece of an extensive collection of ancient swords. Not wrong, per se, but…

Dean squinted at the computer. Then at Sam. Then waited for more words to come out of Sam’s mouth.

“We have nothing missing, and this place is like a dragon hoard of things both magical and biblical. What do you make of that?”

Dean stared, his mouth slightly open as if having an epiphany. He leaned forward, eyes widening with a gasp, and declared dramatically; “Nothing.” He snapped his mouth shut and turned back to the books.

“Jesus, Dean, you’re an idiot.”

“Just because I’m not one-hundred-percent, doesn’t mean I’m not still your brother, asshole,” Dean grinned at Sam, incredibly pleased with himself.

Sam didn’t have the heart to pretend he wasn’t pleased with Dean too.

“What’s this all got to do with anything anyway? There’s a new Bela, finding stuff for the highest bidder?”

“I don’t think so. It’s the highest bidders who are losing their items, and these guys have more money than God.”

One could blame faulty wiring for the sudden electricity in the room, as well as for the lights flickering, but this was the Batcave. Everything ran like clockwork.

“God? Is that you? It’s me, Dean Winchester.”

What Dean expected was a chuckle from Sam. What he got, was the laptop going haywire for a few seconds before the screen went blank, and before Sam could finish his cursing, there appeared the word ‘ **yes** ’.

***

‘ **In the light of recent events** ,’ the text said on the screen, ‘ **I have seen it prudent to bring certain artefacts somewhere where I can keep them safe.** ’

“Heaven,” Dean butted in knowingly, finally finding some straws to grasp at.

‘ **I haven’t been in Heaven in eons. It’s not a place I’d term “safe.”** ’

“Yes, we kinda figured that at some point during the past _twelve years_.”

Sam shushed Dean and leaned closer to the screen. “So what do you want from us? And why aren’t you just coming in and taking it?”

‘ **Yes, well, your predecessors really did a good job with warding the place. Followed all my instructions down pat.** ’

“Your instructions?” Sam scowled at Dean who was mouthing ‘ _What the fuck?_ ’ at the same time.

‘ **Even I can’t come in. It was a precaution in case I was ever _truly_ overthrown.** ’

And what do you say to that? What can you possibly say to that?

“What do you want? Just spit it out, and maybe we can work out a deal.”

‘ **I have Castiel. All I need in exchange, for now, is the amulet.** ’

***

“What? How? I thought I…” Dean stared at the pendant that Sam had somehow unearthed out of absolutely nowhere, and was now dangling innocently from Sam’s fingers.

 Suddenly, terrified and appalled by his past actions, Dean felt the pressing need to apologize. “I never meant to… Sammy, I wasn’t exactly one-hundred-percent then either.”

“I know, it’s fine,” Sam shrugged. “I almost left it there too. I was already out the door before I figured it wouldn’t hurt to keep it, just in case.” At Sam’s sheepish smile, Dean could only envelope him in a crushing hug.

***

“Hold on. I’ll be right back.” Dean stormed towards the storage, emerging a few minutes later brandishing a plain looking metal box like a trophy. “Adamantium,” he offered by way of explanation. “I always knew the crate labeled Doctor MacLain would be good for something… What? At least it won’t burn through.” 

***

Dean bristled and scowled at the grey doors of Oak Creek Church, then glanced up at the star depicted above the entrance, before yanking the doors open with a huff. His giddy anxiousness to get Cas back had steadily grown into irritation along the drive. Once more a pawn in a frustrating game he didn’t even understand or wanted a part of. Thus was the life of Dean Winchester.

The church was empty, as agreed, and Dean took to strolling down the aisle toward the altar, his eyes searching the surroundings the only thing betraying his impatience.

Someone cleared their throat impossibly close behind him. Dean turned around slowly.

There, an arm’s length away, stood a man.

“Morgan… _Freeman_?” Who knew the fucker had a sense of humor. Sick, but a sense of humor. Hilarious.

“Dean Winchester.”

“I guess that’s enough introductions.”

“Yes. Give me what I came for, and you can be on your way.”

“I don’t have it on me. And I’m not giving you jack shit before Cas is walking and talking.”

God raised his brow with an all-knowing smile in the corner of his mouth.

“Alright, I do have it on me, you got me there. But Cas comes first.”

“Out of curiosity, if you don’t mind, what happened to free will? Castiel chose to die. Who are you to take that decision from him?”

“That’s bullshit and you know it. He chose pretty much like the goddamned moon chooses to rise.” Dean took a step closer toward the Morgan Freeman-shaped deity and pointed an accusing finger at him. “You should look into that. The _illness_ ,” Dean spat out, “is as bad as demons, worse, even. At least I can exorcize a fucking _demon,_ I can recognize one, but I have—Had—Fuck!” Dean drew in a breath and closed his eyes, continuing after an audible swallow; “ _Had_ no spell or, or a fucking incantation to cure the man that I love! I didn’t even know I needed one! That shit is _invisible_!”

“Is it?”

“Fuck. You.” In all honesty, the ignorance of this omnipotent being was too mind blowing to even warrant fear after pretty much telling him to shove it. “What do you expect? Paranoia? A re-enactment of The War of the Worlds, full-on Orwellian style? Always looking for hidden meanings, omission, not being able to trust even the ones you’re supposed to be able to trust with your _soul_?”

“Not exactly. But a bit more communication probably wouldn’t go amiss. But, while we’re on the subject… You show me yours, and I’ll show you, well,” God-Freeman shrugged, nonchalant. “ Yours.”

Dean assessed the situation for a moment, always coming to the same conclusion; He didn’t exactly have a choice. He didn’t want a choice. All he wanted was his husband, so fuck this. “Fine,” Dean curled his fingers around the adamantium case. “On three. One,” he moved his hand slowly, eyes on God’s open palm. “Twothree!” He dropped the box like it bit him, snatching his hand back and tucking it behind himself. Nothing else happened.

Dean looked around, over God’s shoulder, but there was nothing – no one – there.

“This how you hold your end of your bargains?” The snarl had God looking up at Dean, closing his hand around his prize. “Hmm?” The bastard actually had the audacity to look confused.

“I said, is this how—” Something touched his hand.

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean twirled around like a ballerina, and he’d be willing to live up to it, wear a tutu while pirouetting as the main attraction of a three ring circus, if only, _pleasepleaseplease_ , he is not hallucinating.

“ _Cas._ ”

***

Dean had left the Impala a way back, out of harm’s way, just in case. Neither man minded the walk. Might as well take their time. Maybe the cooling air would clear some of the awkwardness that came with Cas announcing that he’d heard everything, and just brushing past Dean to get out of the church. God was long gone.

Catching up, Dean didn’t think twice before clutching Cas’s hand in his own, intent on never letting go again. “I found your notebook.”

Cas didn’t answer, but his hand fell lax in Dean’s before tightening again.

After a beat, Cas let out a breath, straightening himself out. “I’m embarrassed, Dean. Half the time I know I’m being irrational, and the other half, I’m… drowning. And then there was this strange _certainty_ I never want to feel again.” Cas gave Dean a vary glance. “And I’m positive Father just played you.”

For all Dean wanted to hold Cas and make all the painful things disappear, he replied to what he could. “So he played me, hell if I care. If at the end of the day, I get to fight for the blankets with you, I do not care.”

“Yes, but you’d have gotten to have that anyway. Father raised me on the third day, saying something about tradition,” Cas frowned. “Something is coming, which is why Father is taking precautionary measures. I don’t have the details, but it’s possible he’ll be returning to Heaven.”

Cas searched Dean’s face worriedly. “He was going to return me to Earth in any case. He told me he just wanted to check how long your poker face was going to hold when I was the bargaining chip.”

“Oh, yeah?” Dean was suddenly, fiercely, regretting he didn’t punch the asshole of a God in the face when he had the chance. “Well I folded. I folded like a flimsy fucking sheet, because you’re not a game to me. Didn’t he pay _any_ attention while we were in Purgatory?”

The statement was met with silence.

“Cas,” Dean started cautiously. “I don’t know how to ask this, so I’m just going to ask it… Did he, you know,” Dean pointed at his head, wiggling his fingers. “Mojo-stuff?”

It seemed to startle Castiel out of his thoughts, a beautiful, glorious flicker of amusement passing over his face, all the way up to his eyes. Dean felt his heart swell with unbridled affection. The suffocating cloak of awkwardness was dissipating with each second their eyes were locked. At which point they stopped walking, Dean had no idea.

“Cure me? No. He did offer me a choice though.”

“Oh?”

“Whether I wanted to ‘recharge my batteries’, or remain human.”

Dean was nearly floored by the lopsided air quotes, hindered by Dean’s hand in Cas’s. It was his Cas alright. “And you chose…?”

“I’m human, Dean. Oh, and I do have a soul,” Cas continued excitedly at Dean’s dumbfounded face; “It turns out every angel has a soul as a fallback. Mine activated when my grace was taken. The stolen grace burnt out because graces and souls can’t coexist in the same vessels, and my soul was brighter than the extrinsic grace, thus,” Cas stopped and lifted his arms as if for an inspection with a small smile, “human.”

“I’m going to kiss you now, if that’s alright with you,” Dean brushed his thumb over Cas’s lips, covering them with his own at Cas’s nod.

Where words failed, there was action. Dean made a note of that for future reference, as Cas relaxed into the kiss, and wrapped his arms around Dean. ‘Life-affirming’ might’ve been the word to use, had Dean been looking for a description.

Castiel spoke almost shyly once they resumed walking. “I did some reading while I was… away. Metatron’s library—”

“Ah. Add him to the list of things we don’t talk about. With ‘you know who’ and ‘you know who’.”

“Fine. _You know who_ ’s library had been confiscated by Father, and I was given the opportunity to familiarize myself with an impressive sub-selection on psychiatry. I diagnosed myself with major depression and severe anxiety disorder. With proper medication, my condition should improve in two to six months.”

This time Castiel stopped walking, halting Dean. “We need to discuss about the use of anxiolytics, as I know you have issues with me taking medication that has hypnotic properties.”

Dean worried his lip between his teeth for a moment, searching answers from the tips of Cas’s shoes. “Yeah,” he looked back at Cas. “I’ve a feeling we have a lot to talk about. Just promise me something,” Dean gathered Cas’s hands into his own. “Whenever you have any doubts about anything, ask me. Ask Sammy.” Dean tightened his hold, scooting closer, close enough to press his forehead against Cas’s. “And then ask me again. And I promise that if I ever stop loving you, I will tell you.”

Cas jerked his head up at that, eyes suddenly cold and calculating, but before he could say anything, his face was cupped with a warm hand, holding him still. “No,” Dean continued in stern voice, “I don’t see that ever really happening, but I want you to know that I would never, ever, lead you on.”

The look on Cas’s face softened, but he squinted while absorbing the information. “But how will I know that?”

“Trust? I mean, we’ve had our ups and down with that, but… Okay. Let’s try it this way,” Dean held Cas’s hands again, licked his lips, and took a deep breath. “Why do you love me?”

“Why do I… Dean.” It was Cas’s turn to consult the shoes before daring to look at Dean again. “I love you because you make me laugh, I’m _mostly_ comfortable around you, and even though I can’t see your soul anymore, I know it’s beautiful. I—”

“Yes, all that,” Dean nodded gravely. “But why me? Why not some other person you’re comfortable with, who makes you laugh, all that. Why _me_?”

This time Castiel didn’t have to take a moment to mull it over. The answer was written brightly in his soul, and it came to him effortlessly; “Because you’re _you_.”

And there it was, in all its inexplicable glory. The love, the understanding, the trust, and just as quickly as the realization dawned, it was shadowed with crippling shame. How could he have doubted? How dared he question where Dean's loyalties, his love, lie? It was Castiel himself who was unworthy of Dean’s trust, his love – _what had he done putting Dean through all that pain all over again?!_  Worthless, useless, faulty—

“Hey! _HEY!_ Cas! Come back to me.”

Dean held Cas’s face between his hands, thumb stroking over his cheek. “Talk to me, babe. Please. What happened?”

“You can’t love me. You shouldn’t. I’m not –”

“But I do. Hey, look at me. I do, and you know why? Because I am me, and you are you, and that’s just how the cookie crumbles. It’s a force of nature and there’s nothing you can do about that. Okay?”

“Okay.” Castiel really, truly tried to believe that.

“Not okay,” Dean scooped Cas into his arms and held him tightly, speaking softly into his ear; “I’m sorry, I kinda pushed you into a landmine right there.”

“You did,” Cas returned the embrace, the familiarity of Dean, and the unfamiliar tone of uncertainty in Dean’s voice curling themselves into the reassurance Cas needed right now. Castiel wasn’t lost in these woods alone. “But I’m sure I’ll get a chance to return the favor.”

Their soft smiles mirrored each other when Cas stepped back, grabbed Dean’s hand and started tugging him along. “Let’s go home.”

“And talk.”

“Yes.”

“And eat. I’m starving.”

“Yes, Dean, food is on the agenda.”

“Wait. You have an entire _agenda_?”

“I do.”

“You know you sound like a Bond-villain, right?”

“I do. That’s partly why I do it.”

“I love you so much, Cas.”

This time, Castiel really, truly, knew it was true.

 

 

 


End file.
